


I have no fucking idea

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	I have no fucking idea

CHAPTER ONE  
I'm definitely not a morning person and neither is my mom, but I can hear her talking on her phone in her bedroom and it's not even 9:00 a.m. – plus, it's Sunday! This is ridiculous. I wrap my pillow around my head and roll onto my side, but I swear I can still hear her through the paper-thin walls of this crappy apartment. I throw off the covers and jump out of bed. She knows I'm trying to sleep. I get dressed and pound past her door in my bare feet just to let her know she's bugging me. I pick up my shoes and plunk down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I want to get out of here before she starts telling me all about it, whatever it is. Probably some stupid fight one of her friends is having with some guy. The talking stops just as I finish tying the laces of my Converse sneakers. Damn. I tip-toe across the kitchen and open the fridge door quietly, hoping she'll think I've already gone. I grab a can of orange soda and head for the door, but it's too late. She staggers into the kitchen and leans on the back of a chair pushed in at the kitchen table. I stop. Why did I pound past her door making sure she heard me? I could have gotten out of here if I'd been quiet about it. She looks like she's gonna hurl. I can see she's been crying.  
"Curt, I need to tell you something," she gasps.  
"What?" I ask calmly, not really sure I want to know.  
"Gramps is dead."  
My head starts spinning. I put the can of soda on the table, pull out a chair and sit down heavily. It's weird because we just moved here from Minneapolis and up until then, I saw my grandparents a lot, but since we got here, I've noticed that I don't miss them at all. I was gonna ask my mom if she misses them, but I know she'll ask me the same thing back and I can't figure out how to tell her that I don't miss them. I mean, I just don't think about them, so I don't miss them. And now Gramps is dead.  
My mom and I sit in silence, not looking at each other. I stare at the little gold design in the mostly red 1950s kitchen table that came with the furnished apartment we rented three weeks ago. The table would have been a normal table to my grandparents when they were young. I want to say this to my mom, to show her that I'm thinking about what she just said, but it's too weird. How would it sound if I just started talking about how the table was a normal table?  
I pick up the can of soda and roll it between my hands, cooling my palms. I cough a bit to clear my throat, to kind of let her know I'm going to say something. I've never really had anyone die before.  
"What happened?" I ask, realizing we've both know Gramps our entire lives, but obviously it's a bigger deal to her. He was her father. I don't have a father.  
"He had a heart attack after he milked the cows this morning. Your grandma found him halfway between the house and the barn lying on the ground singing Row Row Row Your Boat. She called an ambulance, but he was gone by the time it arrived."  
The words bang together, one by one, to make a vivid picture in my mind's eye. It's like watching a movie. I see the cows in the barn. I watch Gramps falling to the ground on the path between the house and the barn. Grandma is bounding down the back steps, grabbing the handrail that I promised to fix before I moved. Grandma hurries towards him, wiping her boney hands on her frilly white apron as she goes. She drops to her knees at his side.  
"Are we going back to Minnesota for the funeral?" I ask, thinking that it would be great to go back, but it would probably wreck any chance I have of graduating from high school.  
"Is that all you've got to say at a time like this?" she says, looking like she's gonna start crying again, standing there in her navy blue sweat pants and baggy white t-shirt. Her hair is a mess. A fucking mess. Just the way she likes it.  
"It seems like a fair question to me," I say, vaguely wondering about the concept of the right thing to say at a time like this. I'm pretty sure trying to be funny would be a bad idea, but maybe if I make some sort of joke to remind her that we both thought Gramps was basically a drag – her word, not mine – she might laugh. Even just a smile would be great.  
For my whole life, Gramps never stopped letting my mom know she was a big fat failure for getting pregnant with me, and he never stopped trying to get me interested in farming as a profession, but I've only ever wanted to play the drums. Figures he'd drop dead from a heart attack with all the stress he put himself under by minding other people's business, basically. But none of that seems too funny right at the moment.  
My mom sniffles and does the weird little clucking sound she makes when she's nervous.  
"Grandma wants you to go back and run the farm," she says.  
"You're joking!"  
"Well, you've talked about almost nothing else except wanting to go back since we got here." She's looking right at me while I'm looking at her, which is something we generally try to avoid doing. Or at least I do.  
"What did you tell her?" I ask, anxiety tightening across my chest and then, as quickly as it started, it stops. At seventeen, I'm actually too old to be told where I'm going to live. I'm not going back to run the damn farm, no matter what they say.  
"I told her that it's up to you," she says.  
"Well, call her back and tell I won't!" I yell, slamming the can of soda down on the table.  
"You should probably put that one back in the fridge and get another one that isn't going to explode when you open it," she says quietly.  
I pound the can of soda on the table over and over, maybe ten times, and then just sort of slump down with my head to one side looking at the stupid can of soda in my hand.  
"Curt, you have to call your grandmother and speak to her yourself."  
My mom's voice is strong and clear in a way that makes it sound more important than just calling Grandma should be. It's like we're both acknowledging that I have to grow up a bit today, even if I don't want to. She's suddenly all full of wisdom and I'm having a fucking temper-tantrum meltdown. For the first time ever, growing up is exactly what I don't want to do.  
I straighten up, push back my chair and slowly stand up. I try to imagine the farm without Gramps. I'd be in charge. I could have a different drum kit in every room if I wanted.  
"I'll call her later," I say and reach for my soda. My mom gets there first and pulls the can towards her.  
"Get another one, Curt."  
"It'll be fine by the time I open it," I say stretching out across the table for it, but she won't let me have it. Fuck the fucking orange fucking soda.  
"It'll be warm by then." She is totally annoying at times.  
"You know what? Sometimes a can of soda is not just a can of soda," I say.  
"I'm well aware of that, grasshopper," she says, shooting me a meaningful glance made somewhat less profound by her puffy, red eyes. She takes the soda to the fridge.  
I'm secretly hoping that all of this will be resolved while I'm downstairs cleaning the club after last night's show, but it seems kind of mean to leave her here like this. And I don't want her to think I'm running away. She's actually pretty tough. Punk Rock Mama – that's what everyone calls her back home. Funny though, I haven't heard any call her that here. Her old friends from college just call her Hannah.  
"Sit down, Curt," she says, putting the new, cold, unshaken can of orange soda on the table.  
"I have to go and clean up the club, Hannah," I say.  
"Today is not the day to start calling me Hannah! Cleaning the club can wait. Your grandfather has just died!"  
I grab the can of soda. I don't want to see her cry and I don't want her to see me cry. Neither of us got along with Gramps. I stand there facing her, holding my stupid can of orange soda that I don't even want any more. I look down at the ugly pattern on the floor, wondering why anyone would choose puke-colored swirls for their kitchen tiles. Everything goes blurry. Giant teardrops land on the floor around my feet.  
"I'll just be downstairs," I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my sweatshirt sleeve.  
"OK," she says softly, finally getting it that I cannot take all this fucking crying. "Just give it some thought, Curt."  
"Today is not the day to start calling me Curt!" I blubber, realizing I sound insane.  
"It's OK to cry," she says.  
"I'm not crying," I say, even though I'm too old to lie about something that is so obviously true.  
"Maybe you should go," she says.  
"Downstairs?"  
"No," she says. "To the farm. Grandma said she'll leave it to you if you go back now."  
"You mean… in her will?"  
"Yes."  
"What about you? Shouldn't it go to you? You're their only kid!"  
"It's up to her who she leaves it to."  
"But you grew up there and… "  
"I think she's afraid I'll try and put her into a nursing home."  
"You can't just put her in a home!" I say. "She's funny, smart and kind!"  
"True," she says with a small laugh. "But if she can't take care of herself and the farm, we'll have to find somewhere for her. And, before you say it – no, I'm not going to take care of her. I'm just not. Besides, she could live for another thirty years."  
"Wait," I say, raising my hand. "So you're suggesting that I go and live with Grandma for the next thirty years of my life?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your feedback down below in a the comments, it would be a great help to me.


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